Oopsie
by stress
Summary: What do you do when, after four years of being stored away in a sock drawer, you wake up to realize that you’ve been given a second chance at wreaking havoc? That’s right! You laugh. Evilly. [A NEW TARK STORY]
1. Oops, he did it again

Author's Note: _This has been a few weeks coming, ever since the awesomeness of the constant NML chats began. I'm not sure how far I will take this – at the very least, now you are all aware that TARK is free again – so… yeah. Review it if you'd like. Woot. _

Disclaimer: _The character of TARK is an adaptation of the distribution center worker in Disney's 1992 live action musical, _Newsies_. He has been a running joke within the fandom for over nearly five years now. Anyone one else in this story will either be a _Newsies _character or an NML listee. Neither of which do I own._

--

What do you do when, after four years of being stored away in a sock drawer,  
you wake up to realize that you've been given a second chance at wreaking havoc?  
That's right! You laugh. Evilly.

--

_Oops he did it again..._

--

It all began with a sock drawer.

A less than exciting start to a story but it was true nonetheless. It really did all begin with a sock drawer.

Well, I guess if you really wanted to get technical, you can go back a bit farther than that – creation and all that nonsense – but, for the purposes of this story, everything began with a sock drawer.

There wasn't anything altogether that impressive about this sock drawer. It was wooden and, quite predictably, held a vast collection of socks. Ankle socks, argyles, knee-highs, slipper socks, socks that had no twin, socks that had a hole in the big toe… there was even a pair of socks that meowed when you pressed a button on the cuff. See? Just plain old, ordinary socks.

Oh, I almost forgot. This ordinary sock drawer held one other thing… a boy. Can't forget about him, can we?

Now, this boy was anything _but _ordinary. Oh, he was the average size and shape. He had two eyes (green), two ears (big), a nose (that smelled) and a mouth (that never stopped moving). He did wear clothes of the late nineteenth century style and a cap that kept his flaming red hair safely hidden out of sight – but those were merely fashion choices. Odd maybe, but did that really make him _extra_ordinary?

Yes.

In fact, it was probably that red hair of his that made him so very _extra_ordinary. That or the fact that he was a notorious prankster who just so happened to possess magic powers. Either or… you can take your pick on that one.

There was only one thing in the world that was powerful enough to negate his awesome havoc wreaking abilities: the everyday, not-_extra_ordinary sock drawer. Which was exactly why he was currently resting in the back, using a particularly fluffy, puff-ball covered sock as a pillow.

Why this sock drawer was strong enough to contain his wickedness no one knows. Oh, I'm sure that the mystic secrets were once known – how else would he have been trapped inside of it in the first place – but, as years passed, the lore was forgotten.

TARK was forgotten.

It's a pity, too. TARK – or The Annoying Red-headed Kid… he'll respond to both, or Froggy (should you wish to call him that) – used to be infamous. Loved and loathed at the same time, he was a legend. No… more than a legend. A myth. And a pretty dang good one at that.

And now? Now he was trapped inside a sock drawer.

But not for long.

It had been four long years since TARK had found himself once again trapped inside of that dang gum sock drawer. He had tried his hardest, right after he had first been tricked into climbing into the drawer, to fight against the wood but the only thing that happened was that his powers came back an zapped him. It took 3 months for his eyebrows to grow back after that.

When he realized that his own might was not sufficient, he tried to plead through the wood. The girl who had trapped him this time – because, unfortunately for TARK, this was not the first sock drawer he had become acquainted with… even if the socks smelled much better this time around – was some bozo named Jessica (or Stress… or even Bob. She'll answer to more names than TARK will).

She was a tricky one. Though she seemed like she would be easy to bend to his will at first, it turned out she was smarter than she looked. In order to keep him safely within the sock drawer she just stopped wearing socks altogether (even though she did get horrible shoe bites because of it).

After awhile, TARK pretended to give up. He thought, evilly, mind you, that if he lured the girl into a false sense of security, she would let up and accidentally let him out. There was only one flaw in his plan – not too long after he decided to pretend to give up, he fell asleep.

He slept for four years.

In time, Jessica – we'll call her Stress… makes her sound more Newsie-ish – Stress forgot all about the evil, annoying redhead that she kept trapped in her sock drawer. She started to wear socks again, and even left the drawer open on it's own at times.

But TARK never escaped. He was still napping.

Until the dawning of 2007. There was an upsurge of activity in the _Newsies _fandom and, as the energy let off by that fandom is what feeds TARK and entices him to wreak havoc, TARK began to sniffle in his sleep. He even turned over once and yawned.

TARK was waking up.

Then the NML chats began. People began to talk about him and, even though he was sleeping, he felt the pull. Girls were interested in him – loving him, loathing him, fearing him – once again.

The buzz became so strong that, at the height of this new wave of frenzy, one of his green eyes opened. Then the other.

TARK was awake.

It was not that much longer before Stress decided that her toes were cold and she needed to grab a pair of socks to warm them up. TARK lay in wait, knowing that as soon as she approached the drawer, he'd be free.

He was right.

Stress yanked on the faux golden handle, pulling the sock drawer out. She was just reaching her hand in for the _Meow_-ing sock when there was a powerful burst of energy exploding out of the drawer. The force was so strong that it send her reeling backwards. She landed on her rump in the middle of her bedroom.

The twister that was TARK paused for only a moment to cackle maliciously down at the shell-shocked girl.

"Mwahahahahahaha!!"

And then he was gone. In a mixture of red and plaid, TARK was gone.

Stress looked at the mess that was her sock drawer and gulped. "Oops, he did it again..."


	2. Aw, man, not again

Author's Note: _Well, I was going to go in a different direction with this chapter but I thought it might be nice if I bridged the gap between the last adventure and this one before starting the havoc. Next chapter will be very interesting, though, I promise that. So, for now, enjoy this one (even though it took forever for an update…). Woot. _

Disclaimer: _The character of TARK is an adaptation of the distribution center worker in Disney's 1992 live action musical, _Newsies_. He has been a running joke within the fandom for over nearly five years now. Anyone one else in this story will either be a _Newsies _character or an NML listee. Neither of which do I own._

--

What do you do when, after four years of being stored away in a sock drawer,  
you wake up to realize that you've been given a second chance at wreaking havoc?  
That's right! You laugh. Evilly.

--

_Aw man. Not again…_

--

TARK was not too sure where he should whisk off to now that he was free again. Though he was not too sure just how much time had passed since his incarceration in that blasted sock drawer, he could just _feel _how things had changed.

And he did not like that one bit.

Using his special-rific super dee duper AMAZING TARK POWERS ™, TARK started to feel around for the minds of the girls that he used to terrorize. Using said powers, he proceeded to gauge the level of TARK awareness in those girls – because, really, would it be fun to wreak havoc on someone who could care less that you could?

The first girl he sought out was Quipster. Because hers was the first sock drawer that he had even been trapped in, TARK was able to find her quite easily. But, when he did, what he found was upsetting to the terror: her reading indicated that she was only at a twenty three percent level of awareness.

_Hmm, _TARK thought to himself – quite a difference from his 'get the lead out of your pants' tirades as it was more of a coherent thought – _Quipster has forgotten about me._

_How long was I in that damn drawer anyway?_

He did not dwell on her much longer – even if it was a blow that the only girl he had considered a quasi-ally had all but forgotten about him.

There were many more _Newsies _fans out there. And they all deserved the chance to take on the TARK. Woot.

Tunes was next. She had been instrumental in his last capture. She couldn't have forgotten about him… could she?

Well, it turned out that she could. Her awareness level was even lower: nineteen percent.

Now, if TARK really could focus on anything other than pushing around newsboys and annoying the fans that love them, he might have started to get a wee bit nervous.

Whirling through the list of girls that he had opposed during his last adventure, TARK took readings of a good handful of them:

Wish: twenty four percent.

_Better but not quite good enough._

Spin: thirty six percent.

_Even better but still…_ _Only thirty six percent?_

Squibble: ten percent.

Prankster: seven percent.

Stripes: four percent.

_Well, this don't look too promising. Maybe I won't be getting to laugh evilly as I toy with these poor _Newsies _fans again…_

Holiday: ninety five percent.

_Wait._

_Ninety five percent?_

_  
Really?_

TARK narrowed his beady eyes as he turned his trademark super powers back onto the girl that he had just thought about. At first, he thought maybe that his powers were malfunctioning because he was stretching all the way across the US. But no. He was right.

Holiday had a ninety five percent awareness level of TARK.

_They still remember me, _he smirked. _Good._

The extreme level of TARK awareness sent a warm tingly feeling down his spine. Holding onto that feeling, he sought out someone from the Old Days were could match that level.

Or beat it.

Ninety seven percent.

He found someone in the middle of the country whose TARK awareness level was ninety seven percent: Aki.

His smirk got just a little bit bigger. Why? Because, even though ninety-seven percent was really impressive, there was another blip on his TARK awareness gauge-o-matic.

Somebody out there was walking around with a ninety nine percent level. And, with such a high level, what kind of terrible, havoc-wreaking entity would he be if he did not fulfill the girl's obvious paranoia by jumping out and scaring the bajeezus out of her?

But who was the girl?

TARK allowed himself a small chuckle when he realized that the reason why it took so long to realize who she was was because of that stupid sock drawer. Even though he was now just floating… _somewhere_… the drawer was still expanding its considerable powers in protect the owner of those socks.

_If I can't wreak havoc in Stress's room, _TARK thought, _then I'm going to have to bring her and those other TARK remember-ers to me._

The only question was: How?

The last time he had gone about trying to wreak havoc on these girls, he had done it through modern technology. By sending an email message to a select thirty-some odd NMLers, he used his special-rific super dee duper AMAZING TARK POWERS ™ to suck them all in through their computers and bring them to Limbo. And that had only been the beginning of his evil plan.

Now, would they fall for that same excuse again? Probably not…

… but that didn't mean that he couldn't change his evil plan around just a tad and then shower it upon a bunch of unsuspecting girls.

Letting himself a few seconds to cackle – Mwahahahahaha!! – TARK summoned all the spare magic that he could to put his plan into play. Then, once the outline had been established, he snapped his fingers and transported himself back into Stress room.

Purposely making himself invisible – it wouldn't do well to alert Stress to his return, given that the girl was still sitting, confused, on the floor – TARK cast his green eyes around, only smiling triumphantly when he saw the black laptop that was resting in the center of an orange bed.

Luckily for him, Stress had left it open, with the power on. All he had to do was shrink himself to the appropriate size and bum rush the bright screen. Courtesy of his limitless power, TARK was able to disappear through the lid, effectively finding himself inside of her computer.

And then he waited. Again.

TARK was really good at waiting.

--

As if someone had just waved a hand in front of Stress's face, she came back to. Shaking her head, she slowly moved around to her knees before rising up. Without saying a word – which really was quite unlike her – she approached her sock drawer and, calmly, shut it.

Even though she was well aware that a red and plaid tornado had just torn through her room, and the little voice in the back of her head was telling her that it was going to come back and haunt her, Stress was trying as hard as she could to pretend that nothing had just happened.

Maybe, if she was lucky, TARK would just go back to 1899 Manhattan and leave them all alone. He couldn't possibly want revenge for being shut up in her sock drawer for four years.

_Could he?_

Purposely trying not to think about that, the girl decided that maybe going on the computer and signing on would occupy her attention. Hey, you never know, right?

The laptop was still on so all she had to do was click on the AIM desktop icon. Her screen name and password were already there and, because she was lazy, she had it set so that it would automatically log in.

"Doo doo doo," she muttered under her breath as the little yellow AIM MAN logged her on and brought up her buddy list. As that was loading, the AIM homepage popped up and, not for the first time, she remembered that she meant to disable that.

However, before she could do that, a chat invitation popped up on the screen.

**SexyRedHead99 **has invited you to chat in Room **ForTheNewsies**

Would you like to:

**Accept **or **Decline**

Without even thinking about it – or paying attention to what the popup message really said, Stress automatically maneuvered the little red knobby thing (the thing that pretended it was a mouse) over to the **Accept **option.

But, strangely enough, the action did not take her into a chat room. Curious, she went to check that she was still logged on AIM. She was, of course, but, in the few seconds it took her to check on that, a smoky red cloud began to emit from the back of her computer.

She only noticed the cloud when it seemed to solidify and form a massive hand shape. Before she could jump off of her bed and make a run for it, the hand gripped the front of her t-shirt and pulled.

It kept on pulling until she had been sucked straight through the screen.

The laptop monitor glowed bright white and, as if there was someone invisible still lurking in her room, the computer shut off and the lid slammed down.

Stress sighed, her voice not more than a whisper escaping from the closed black box. "Aw, man. Not again."


End file.
